


Empty Men

by orphan_account



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman
Genre: Alcoholism, F/M, PTSD, Pre-film, Prequel, canon violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd ordered Eric to return home to Sarah. He'd done just that, he thought; but watching her face, the way it lit to reflect that shyness he remembered from their wedding night, the smile that had never seen war, he knew that part of him was never coming back.</p>
<p>In which the Huntsman returns from war to the wife he'd left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Men

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I'm not the only person who had this idea, small fandom that this is; but this one is mine. It's been incubated between me and my Goose, with whom I bounce ideas. Goose also beta reads for me, and he's comprising illustrations for selected scenes (I do very little work here).
> 
> Use good judgement here; you know this isn't going to have a happy ending, because if it did, Snow White would never happen. Eric returns from war, and with that comes heavy emotional baggage and some serious issues, to include drinking to drown... well, a lot of things.
> 
> Despite or because of all this, I hope you enjoy reading this and stick around.

The hardest part of the war was not sending their menfolk away to fight; it was not the coldness of beds holding only women, the ache of children crying for their fathers, the changing of seasons with only word that the fighting continued. No, the hardest part was waking in the grey of dawn, looking over her rooms, her home, and knowing her husband was not there, and not knowing if he ever would be again.

With a sigh, she pulled herself from the furs and blankets that gave her a pretense of warmth in the night. Certainly, she told herself, he would return, and it would not do to find his home in disrepair and his wife lazing about uselessly. She turns the bed down, putting things in order before dressing warmly for the damp spring outside.

"Sarah!"

She started, still not used to the voice that sometimes jumped from her bedroom window; but laughing, shaking her head, she walked to it, knowing who it was that was calling her.

"Yes, Harold, what is it?" She asked, resting her elbows on the sill.

With a grin that revealed a lost tooth, he answered, "Lily gave birth early this morning; the calf is doing well. He'll be as big as the house in his time."

Grinning herself, she asked, "Well done, lad, have you checked on the sheep in a bit?"

"Not yet," He admitted, adding as he started backing away, "I just wanted to tell you that first! I'll run out to the pasture and be back for breakfast!"

Sarah laughed again, waving him off. Harold had his own mother, of course, and she kept him well, as she did his older brothers; all the same, Hilda had gifted Sarah her son's services and company, and she was grateful for both. Sliding into her boots, she went to retrieve the eggs she’d need for the morning meal. The sheep she'd sent him to mind were a collective flock, as were many of the village’s resources. She and Harold were most apt when it came to the birthing of livestock, cow and sheep and horse alike, and as such tended them in the spring. She would check in on Lily and her calf later, as well as any other beasts that were new mothers in the night.

A gentle kick to part the flock of hens, Sarah's grin softened to a small, soft smile. It had been almost two years since her husband, and the others, had gone to war. She had wondered, in the first few months, if there was a child blooming in her womb; they'd been in wedded bliss for such a short time before he was called away, but both longed for the laughter of children in their home. 

She pressed her lips together, reaching into the henhouse to retrieve her prizes. There had been no babe for her in her husband's absence; no matter, they would try again when he returned. And he would return. He had to--

Her breath shook as she sighed, crouching for a moment to steady her.

"Dear God, please," She begged, far passed praying for too long, "Return my husband. Bring Eric back to me. Almighty God, bring him home to me, please."

A moment of rest was all she allowed herself before setting herself again to her chores; the sun was not yet raised, but if she spent too much time wallowing it would best her. 

The eggs collected, she returned to her home, setting the basket on the table. The fire was still salvageable from the night before, so she tossed in a few arms of pine and headed out once more to retrieve the milk. Lily was calmly lowing in her enclosure, snuffing her calf's shoulders as it tottered around experimentally. Sarah smiled at the sight, coming in slowly but confidently; it had been many years since Lily had taken offense at her presence, and they'd worked out their differences then. The new calf, however, seemed to be quite intrigued by her presence, more so as he realized she meant to lay hands on his mother. When she pulled her stool close to Lily's flank, resting her head against the warm skin, he gave a short bleat, trying to push his way between them.

It drew a tired laugh, but a true one. "Oh, young man? You think I mean to rob you of your breakfast, the second this morning, no doubt?" With steady guidance, she moved him to his mother’s far side, where he could have access to her milk without interrupting her own work. "There now, have no fuss. I'll be on my way in a moment."

This had always been a habit of hers, talking to animals, and to things when inspired as such. As the war held on, however, she found more and more of the villagers had taken up the like, scolding the rooster and begging the cats 'for the love of-- the rats, cat, take your pick'. It was a credit to her that the animals with whom she spoke often deigned to listen; as did the calf, suckling from the other side as she filled her bucket without complaint. She made sure to fill the trough with water before returning to the house, carting her milk along with her. 

Harold had returned, bringing with him a pocketful of spring berries that would be a nice compliment in his mother's bread. She offered him a cup of warm milk before putting it aside to settle. He'd already brought salt pork from the winter before, and she set herself to preparing a filling, if modest, breakfast. He brought no reports of new lambs, though one old ram had wandered off in the night (Dwalin's always tended to wandering); Harold had recovered him with promises of leaving him without fleece next winter if he didn't learn to mind. Sarah told him the next time one of them wandered off he should simple move the herd and leave the stray to find its way back, an example to the others.

Breakfast was a quick affair, the sun just stretching over the tips of the trees as they brought Harold’s share of eggs and finds to his mother's house.

Hilda greeted them from where she was tending her garden, "What's he done now?"

"Nothing wrong!" Harold protested, adding for good measure, "I made sure Lily's calf was all sorted, I counted the sheep, and I found some berries-- Sarah, tell her I haven't done anything wrong!"

She nodded quickly, "Oh, aye, he's done some good work. I don't know how my cow could have birthed that youngling without your son's guidance."

"Now don't go telling him things like that, I'll never get him to stop cocking about if you keep filling his head with terrible ideas like he's worth something." When Harold looked like he might argue further, Hilda flapped her apron at him, remarking, "You certainly look like you slept in the barn, go on, wash your face before someone sees you."

He scuttled off like a good lad; Hilda turned a careful eye to the woman before her, adding, “You don't look much better than the boy, your hair is barely combed."

Sarah smiles under her scrutiny, knowing she means well. And what's more, she's right; her hair was pulled to the side and made to look some semblance of kept, but it was clearly not so. She knew there was straw and dust woven into the plait, mud decorating the side of her face. She shivered in a dress that was too thinly worn for the season, the warmer ones waiting for her chance to mend them.

"Does my appearance offend you?" She asked, half teasing but in complete respect; Hilda was of an age where a lady would not leave her bedchambers without being in a state equal to a queen, and she knew better than to pretend otherwise.

Hilda squinted at her for a moment, before standing and shaking the mud from her skirts. "Sarah, you were a child when your mother passed on; married, aye, and you found yourself practically a widow as soon as a wife, but a child even so."

There was kindness in her words, truthful but hard. "Yes, Hilda, but I--"

"Listen to me, dear, this is important." She stilled her tongue, dropping her eyes. Hilda continued, "I know it is difficult, but whether your husband or mine comes back from this war, we must continue on as though they are here, and that means taking care of yourself so as to make him happy. Let the shadow not play on your face. It suits you ill."

Before she can answer, a loud call echoed from the field. At first, the clash of voices made it impossible to understand, until finally among them she can hear one constant:

Men approaching! The men are coming!

Her bones shook at the idea. The war was over; the men returned. Eric was--

"Lass, listen to me!"

She snapped to attention as Hilda instructed, "Inside, you useless thing, give me the eggs and put some water on your face, at least pretend I'm not your mother!"

Sarah turned all to movement then, handing over the eggs and pulling her hair loose. She can’t do much for it besides shake most of the sediment from it and rebraid it with more care, tying it cleanly near her waist. The water in the bowl was icy cold, but she threw it on her face and scrubbed valiantly without regard.

She paused when she'd finished drying it, watching her reflection in the water. Her eyes were still wide with disbelief, dark and weathered; unruly wisps of her wheat-colored hair wrapped around her face, still round and healthy. She was no queen or fair maiden untouched by the sun, but she would do for her husband.

Oh.

But what if Eric had not returned?

"Sarah!"

That was Harold. She wiped the heel of her palm over her cheeks quickly, turning when she heard him throw open the door. He smiled that same grin, carefree and excitement.

"Father's back!" He explained and she rushed to meet him as he twirled her around, his head to her shoulder. "And Lane and Seth, and Derrick-- oh, but Derrick's hand is gimped, but they say he'll be alright, and he--"

There came loud footsteps behind them, and before she could understand, Harold was tackled to the ground, under two of his brothers. Over his and their shouts of joyous indignation, she could hear their parents outside, mother quietly pleased that all her menfolk had returned, father secretly proud that only the youngest had been injured, and a small one, at that.

Sarah took a deep breath before slipping past the pile of boys, waiting a moment for acknowledgement to approach Hilda and Owen.

"Good to see your family together again," She greeted, pressing her lips to his cheek as he did likewise.

He agreed with a small smile, one lined with exhaustion, "Not an easy task, but we managed."

She nodded, clearing her thoughts before braving the question, "Have you seen my father?"

"...Aye, lass," He answered, and she knew from that tone what he meant to say. He was firm, but tender and slow as he continued, "He fell in battle from his wounds, a hero's death."

She felt her throat close with thick emotion, but forced her body to ask, "And Eric?"

"He walked away from the battlefield," Owen replied with that hanging note in his voice. "But I have not seen him in the weeks since leaving there. Many of our men were too wounded to travel and remained in the castle to heal; he may have been among them."

Sarah's eyes fell away from his at that point, unable to keep up her pretense. Hilda reached out to her, but she held up a hand and offered a small smile. "I'm glad that so many have returned safely," She offered, "And I hope Derrick heals quickly, I-- please excuse me, I have duties at home."

Owen nodded, offering in return, "If you have need of anything, we are at your service, my sons and I. Do not hesitate to call on us."

There were tears waiting to fall, and she forced herself to start walking while thanking him. She kept her eyes on the ground as she went, hearing the voices of other mothers and children and fathers and husbands as they rejoined, concern from those who had not found their missing parts, anguish from some who, like she, would not find that part. When she crossed her threshold, her door closed, she allowed herself to cry, back against the door. Her father was gone. Her mother had died of fever the winter after her wedding, before the war had started. And her husband--

She started praying around her sobs, sometimes favoring those she knew from the services she’d gone to in their village's little thatch church, sometimes just pleading, bargaining, and begging for him to return to her. In time, her tears ran dry; her sobs not much more than heavy sighs. Sarah pulled herself up, brushing her skirts senselessly before examining herself. She did look as though she lived in a barn; and worse, she felt like she had for months. She resolved to fix that in the evening.

Throughout the day, as she went about her work, she began carting water back to her home. Harold assisted her from time to time, as he usually did, though more and more often he'd rush off to check on his brothers or father. Sarah didn't blame him, and would continue on well enough until she'd gathered enough water.

Setting them by the hearth, she warmed them enough to fight the chills, filling the old tub that served this purpose. Hilda came around to check on her, and upon discovering her activities, excused herself long enough to retrieve a small bottle of oil to scent her hair with when she was through. Sarah thanked her for it, and Hilda reminded her to clean her back thoroughly.

She did just that; meticulously, she scrubbed her hands, her feet, each and every crevice her body had, studying the curves and recesses of her flesh. Finally, she set about her hair, pulling it through her fingers and using a carefully carved comb to pull the tangles loose. 

Eric-- and oh, the pain his name brought to her heart-- had always loved her hair when she let it loose at night, playing with it, pressing it to his lips and nose and trying to breathe her in. And she fell asleep with that thought, so often; that he was beside her, a part of her.

A voice in her head that sounded like Hilda reminded her that she'd catch her death if she dallied too long. She climbed from the tub, taking a sheet and drying her body quickly before setting herself to her hair. Once she'd dried it mostly, she went for the bottle of oil in her bedchamber, hands shaking in the chill of the room. 

Before she could return to the warmth of the kitchen, she heard the door opening, closing. Her blood ran cold the longer no voice called out; no one would walk into her home without announcing themselves. She took a deep breath, crossing the room for a dagger her father had given her on her wedding night.

There were heavy footsteps outside, coming closer to her hiding place. Another deep breath; she listened, placing the stranger in the room. He was close, a few more steps--

One.

Two.

Three.

She threw herself from the shadows, a bared dagger in one hand, a bottle of oil in the other, and her hair wet and dripping around her midsection.

A hand caught the wrist holding the weapon, but there was no other movement. After a moment of struggling, an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, letting her feel how cold the man was, and-- 

Sarah's eyes went up to his face, and for a moment she didn't recognize it.

When she did, the dagger fell from her hand.

"Eric."


End file.
